Sonnensegler.de

Creativity, it comes in waves. They coast for a long, long time, becoming invisible more and more. You just have to wait for a fresh one to fill you up with…with energy.

While browsing through several websites to get inspiration from (this job is like lifeblood to me) I revisited a site my brother recommended me two weeks ago. This site by Philip Toledano goes by the name “Days with my father” and shows a staggering view on Mr. Toledano’s 98 years old father who suffers from loss of his short-time memory, making everyday life a bit more difficult than usual. He, the son, comments on some of his breathtakingly beautiful pictures, on some he doesn’t, leaving the viewer guessing his own part of the story, making him pause for a moment. This series truly is a discovery to me. I’ll tell you why.

My grandfather died when I was thirteen years old. I loved him. I simply did. There was no shade or doubt or restriction to this love, it was unconditional. I can’t remember every part of the time we shared, what makes me love him more. So many memories are locked in my mind, covered with a misty layer that won’t go away. I know that he was good for me. For all that I have experienced in my short life, the knowledge of him having been a part of my life made me stand situations better.

He was the one who awoke the love of nature in me, the mechanical skills, the love for storytelling and the ability to love life and not let fear destroy you.

The last memory I have of him is in the hospital. It was winter, only a few weeks to Christmas Eve. We’re hustled into my uncle’s bus, we’re in a long quiet hospital corridor, I am there, in his room, his eyes are closed. His whole body seems to be wired, for whatever reason, all I see is that he’s asleep. I don’t comprehend it. To this very day I am asking myself why I didn’t do anything. Awake him or break down or cry. I remember I didn’t cry. I realized the loss of him years after this day. I simply was too young. Shouldn’t I have written down a few words then? I was already into writing, but I can’t find this particular day in my old writing books.

There was some sort of connection between us. It’s no sure thing, maybe I only want it to be that way, but he resembled me in so many ways that I refuse to think there was not. Read the rest of this entry »